Alternian Nocturne No 6
by DarkHorseBlueSky
Summary: This is the story of how the icedweller died. [Ancestor-verse. I think I'm the only person to write the Ancestors of my fantrolls before the actual fantrolls themselves.]
1. Frosteye's Heart: I

**A/N: Starting a new story is literally the last thing I should be doing right now ****(don't even mention that I have to leave in literally six minutes and haven't even gotten dressed yet), but (1) I just downloaded 100 new orchestral pieces and (2) caught up in Homestuck.**

**And being the Ancestor trash I am, this is the unholy offspring.**

**Kill me now.  
**

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_Alternian Nocturne No. 6 in A Minor for Piano and Violin, Op. 12, "Frosteye's Heart": I. Adagio cantabile_.

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Governor Frosteye was a mysterious troll, that much was certain, but little else. He was of the icedwellers, the pale lilacbloods, the white-haired ones. Tall, he was, and lean; always shoeless, never protected from the northern cold that didn't seem to harm him. Nearly all his days were spent in his ice palace, overseeing the frigid, barren territory where few lived besides him.

One day, however, Frosteye left the palace and traveled on foot to a city, accompanied by only his spears and a small amount of money. Then he spent a night in the marketplace, never once speaking, never purchasing — only watching.

He came upon an auction, where three lowbloods were being sold to bidders. Curious, he stayed to watch the first two leave the dais, enchained, to their new highblood masters. And as the auctioneer asked for offers on the last, Frosteye stood.

He used every last cent of the money he had with him, but the deal was settled and the siennablood was sold to Frosteye. She was young but plain-faced; healthy but defeated. She pulled ever-so-slightly at her chains as he led her away.

But once they arrived at his palace, he stopped, let her chain fall from his hands, and turned to her. She was shivering from the cold, so he took a blanket of furs from a chair and draped it over her shoulders.

"What is your name?" asked he of the young slave.

She didn't tell him. She only looked at him, refusing to say a word.

So, with equal silence, Frosteye reached out and unlocked her chains. He gave his slave a choice that day — she could leave whenever and wherever she wanted, and he would provide her with whatever she needed to make the journey and begin a new life. Or she could stay with him as a guest and a companion, free of charge or servitude.

Suspicious of a trap that might spring if she took his offer to leave, the young woman decided to stay. To test the truth to his offer, she devoted six days and six nights to her submission to him — at every opportunity stepping forward with the humility and perseverance of a slave to her master, offering to serve him in any way she could. Even as he protested, telling her that she was no longer a slave and didn't need to work for her life, she worked and served and exhausted her powers until she could barely stand.

So she began the second phase of her plan — she spent six days and six nights doing absolutely nothing. She stayed in the resting block Frosteye had built for her, curled up inside her recuperacoon. She did not speak to Frosteye, did not come when he requested her presence, did not even look at him. She took whatever food she wanted whenever she wanted, and when she used her powers of psychic melody, she used them only to please herself. And she expected punishment — even desired it. It would prove that she was right about Frosteye, that he was no different from any other deceptive highblooded slave owner. But punishment never came. Frosteye simply bowed his head and accepted her obstinance with kindness.

Finally the once-slave exhausted herself of nothing, and on the twelfth night she appeared before Frosteye in the clothes he had given her, holding the stringed violancer that had been her only possession when she had come. She played a song for him, and then fell at his feet in shame.

But Frosteye kept his word and helped his guest up to a seat at his table. He served her a meal and began to talk, not of work or slavery or castes — but of family, and pastimes, and love. He asked her questions, which at first she only barely answered, but as the night went on began to warm up. Frosteye's kindness was unmatched by any she'd ever felt and she sensed his sincerity — it was in everything he did, every word he spoke, every time he met her gaze.

Neither she nor Frosteye knew it, but that night was the beginning of a moirallegiance that would span for sweeps.

And neither of them knew it, but that night was the reason he would die.


	2. Mindless: II

**A/N: *laughs* I am perfectly aware as to the usual six-letter naming scheme, child. However, this is an Ancestor-styled story, wherein the naming scheme follows eight letters. The Signless/Sufferer, the Handmaid, the Summoner, the ****Ψ****iioniic, the Disciple, the Dolorosa, Redglare, Mindfang, Darkleer, Orphaner Dualscar, and the Condesce — for instance — all have eight-lettered names/titles to some extent. (I'm not sure what's up with the Grand Highblood…)**

**Most likely their actual names ****_were_**** Kankri Vantas, Damara Megido, etc. but in canon the Alternian Ancestors were referred to with eight letters.**

**I'm just Ancestor trash so…yeah…  
**

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**_Alternian Nocturne No. 6 in A Flat Major for Xylophone and Cello, Op. 12, "Mindless": II. Prestissimo. Con forzando.  
_**

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On the other side of Alternia, a young limeblood suffered a very different fate than Frosteye's slave. She was called the Loveless — for she had no lusus to raise her, no friends to help her, not even another of her caste to call for. She was the last of the limebloods, only alive due to extraordinary circumstances. She was small and weak as a grub, and had been left to die because there were no lusii left alive who would care for her color.

But wild woofbeasts found her and took her in, and the Loveless grew up under their cave roof. When she was no more than four sweeps old, she left their protection to explore the world. Unknown to her, this was only one of many mistakes she would make in the next six sweeps of her life.

Because of her upbringing at the paws of wolves, the Loveless was able to hunt and survive on her own just fine. But then, out of curiosity, she left the wilderness for a large city — the city built at the command of none other than Styxious Moontail himself.

Moontail was a navyblood and a notorious businesstroll — the head behind Alternia's slave trade. As a young troll he had been struck with the chord of vengeance after a lowblood prostitute stole the heart of his ex-matesprit — and ever since, Moontail had dedicated himself to turning all insubordinate lowbloods into profit not for themselves, but for him. With his silver tongue and clever mind for business, Moontail was able to ascend quickly in the ranks of slavers until even the traders themselves bowed at his feet. He was at the peak of his power when he erected his very own city, built on the backs of the slaves he sold, and remained there to watch over all from his dark castle.

On the night when the Loveless crossed his borders, Moontail was taking a stroll in his garden of black roses when he saw her, lying unconscious just beyond the outer wall. She had been trying to forage for food when a storekeeper struck her, to rid her from his property. Her face was covered in her own vibrant blood.

Moontail had been a mere eighty sweeps old when the extermination of the limebloods had taken place, and recalled its thoroughness. That one's genetic material had managed to escape and grow was astounding to him — but not terrifying. In fact, he was so fascinated that the mere thought of culling such a rare creature with such unique powers repulsed him. Why, he thought, would one wish to waste such a source of profit?

The powers of the limebloods, he knew, could be used as more than just a weapon against the highbloods. It was the gift of silence, the gift of tranquillity that couldn't help but make even the most bloodthirsty of subjuggulators fall into a trancelike daze, or even in some cases, sudden red love for their controller.

In a time of caste-based upheaval, such a skill was invaluable to the savages and revolutionaries that wished to topple the hemospectrum entirely. But Moontail was a selfish troll — and to boot, a capricious one. He held episodes of deep, dark depression and burning, passionate anger side by side. The limeblood, if properly restrained, might help him overcome both and reach the true happiness that he knew awaited for him.

So he chained the girl and woke her, eager to speak with her. But in his arrogance he had underestimated the strength that came with a limeblood's fear — for the Loveless was young, but strong. She saw her captor, felt her chains, and began to scream.

Before Moontail's guards could overcome the subdued daze that she brought, the Loveless broke her chains and killed them all.

Once she was done, she locked the gates and set the blueblood's hive alight.

Everyone said that the Loveless had killed herself in the fire. But, though the gates were locked from the inside, many suspected she had fled and lived to this day…

It would certainly explain the horrible burn scars across the face of the mysterious limeblood girl who appeared one day, three sweeps later, to the lowblood revolutionaries with a single request. And it would certainly explain the request itself, put into six smoke-scratched words:

"I W4NT TO M4KE THEM P4Y."


End file.
